


Beautiful Disaster

by FallingLikeThis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Attempted Murder, Broken Harry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I think it's heavy, Insecure Harry, Knives, M/M, No Smut, Non-Graphic Violence, Nurse Louis, Past Violence, Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, Scars, Stabbing, Sweet Louis, Trauma, Violence, be careful with this one, maybe? - Freeform, oh boy, tagged mature for subject matter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingLikeThis/pseuds/FallingLikeThis
Summary: Harry is broken. Maybe Louis can help with that.





	Beautiful Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, friends, please be careful if you read this. It is tagged mature for the subject matter. There is no smut. Trigger warnings for non-graphic violent attacks, scars, emotional pain, trauma. Harry has been physically attacked in the past by an intruder in his home and Louis gets attacked at night in the present. Nothing graphic happens on screen but the memories and aftereffects are there.

Harry can feel eyes on his back as he sits alone at the bar drinking his scotch. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t give any indication of interest. He’s not here to pull. He’s here to drink. To forget. But somehow, the things he wants most to forget are the ones that are hardest to get rid of.

A body sits on the stool next to him. He doesn’t turn. He stares into his glass, swirling the ice in his drink.

“You look lonely,” the man says, leaning into his space.

Harry briefly wonders what would happen if he said yes, if he went home with someone and let them see him. But he quickly shakes his head at himself. He knows what happens when they see them. When they see the scars that cover his arms, chest, and abdomen. They freak. And then they split. No one wants someone so damaged.

“I’m fine,” Harry says without sparing the stranger a glance. “I’m just here for the alcohol.”

“I can help with that,” they say flirtatiously, placing a hand on his arm.

“Please don’t.” Harry nearly spills his drink on himself from the speed with which he pulls his arm back. He doesn’t really like to be touched when he’s not expecting it. Not since—

Harry takes a deep breath to calm his thoughts. _Why can’t he drink away the memories? Why can’t he just forget??_

“Whoa. Calm down there, mate. It’s all good.” The stranger’s reaction to Harry pulling away seems too slow, delayed. Harry’s thoughts are already a million miles away.

Harry sets his drink on the bar without finishing it. He pulls out his wallet and tosses down the money he owes, avoiding the prying eyes of the stranger and the mirror behind the bar as he makes his way to the door. He has a bottle of tequila at home. Perhaps drinking alone is a better option anyway.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Harry probably shouldn’t be walking home. He should be afraid to after what happened to him. He should be afraid of new places and the dark and strangers. And sometimes he is. Sometimes he jumps at sudden noises. Sometimes he flashes back to the broken glass that had alerted him to an intruder in his home when he was just 17. Sometimes that sends him into a spiral, the memories of what had happened to him that night making his hands and lips tremble.

Other times, the thing he’s most afraid of is the loneliness. His scars keep anyone from getting too close, keep him from letting anyone too close no matter how much he actually wants that. Those times Harry is afraid the loneliness will swallow him whole. Tonight is one of those times.

He should call a cab or an uber, he knows he should but he can’t bring himself to. His feelings are so conflicting. He walks with his arms wrapped around himself, as though if he pretends hard enough they’ll become someone else’s. The embrace will become warm and loving, instead of a shield to protect him from the world. And what a sad shield it’s proven to be so far.

He’s nearly home, maybe a block away, when he hears it. A cry echoes in the darkness.

Harry stiffens, feet planted on the sidewalk as he listens. His heart crashes like thunder in his chest when he hears it again.

“Please, don’t!”

It’s close, coming from an alley between buildings just feet from where he’s standing. Harry should run. His mind tells him to. Screams it at him. _Run. Get away._ But his feet won’t obey and neither will his heart.

He moves toward the alley instead of away from it, steps quick and sure despite the way his hands shake and his knees feel weak.

There’s a man, young and beautiful and absolutely terrified, being backed into a corner by two bigger men in hooded sweatshirts.

The alley is quite small and even at the mouth of it, Harry is within touching distance of the attackers.

“Hey!” He shouts, startling them. One of them turns suddenly, his whole body twisting around and as he moves, his weapon, a small butterfly knife tears into Harry’s shirt, slicing his skin.

Harry barely feels it, pushing the man away as the other attacker turns to him too. Brandishing his weapon as a warning.

It’s enough of a distraction that the last man, the beautiful one that was being attacked, is able to pick up a loose board someone must’ve tossed out and swing it at their assailants.

Both attackers fall but Harry can tell that it won’t keep them down long.

“Come on,” he says, taking the other man’s hand. Together, they run full out toward Harry’s apartment and he’s got his key out and into the door before the other man even realizes what they’re doing.

“Here,” Harry says, pushing the door open and gesturing for the other man to go in first.

The man looks at him nervously, blue eyes flicking from the darkness inside the door to Harry’s face. “In there?”

“It’s safer in there than out here,” Harry says, glancing back the way they came. The other man does the same. The street appears empty, but the man ducks inside anyway. Harry follows quickly, locking the door behind them.

“That’s… a lot of locks,” the stranger says warily behind him.

“Oh,” Harry says, stepping back from his door as he realizes how this must look to the stranger. “Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, ducking his head self-consciously. “They just… make me feel safe.”

When he chances a peek at the other man, there’s less trepidation in his gaze but it seems to have been replaced by an understanding that Harry wishes he hadn’t seen.

“Anyway,” Harry says, bypassing the man to walk to his kitchen. “Um, I’m Harry. This is my apartment. You can stay here as long as you need. Do you need a phone to call a cab or the police or something?’

“I’m Louis-,” the man starts, but cuts himself off from saying more as he follows Harry into the kitchen when he sees the red stain on Harry’s shirt. “Oh god, you’re hurt.”

Harry looks down at his side. He barely feels any pain but maybe it’s shock. “Right. I should go clean up.”

“Let me look at it,” Louis says, reaching out but Harry backs up a step, wrapping his arms around himself. Louis takes a respectful step back from Harry. “Please,” he says softly. “I’m a nurse. And after the way you helped me, I feel like I owe it to you.”

Harry shakes his head. “You don’t owe me anything. I’d hope someone would do the same for me.”

“I would,” Louis promises quietly.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, giving him a small smile.

“Will you let me look?” Louis asks tentatively closing the distance between them again.

Harry swallows. Letting Louis look, letting him help, that would mean taking off his shirt probably. That would mean Louis might _see_. But maybe it’s time he let someone see. “Okay.”

Louis moves closer, lifting Harry’s shirt just enough to see his wound. He studies it, prodding lightly. “Sorry,” he says when Harry winces. “It looks pretty shallow, I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, it’s in the bathroom,” Harry tells him, moving to go get it but Louis stops him.

“Stay here,” he says, hands on Harry’s arms holding him still. “I’ll get it. Where’s the bathroom?”

“Um, down the hall. First door on the left.”

Louis hurries away and Harry leans back against the counter. He’s scared but he fights the urge to cover himself with his arms again.

Louis comes back in, first aid kit in hand and sets it on the counter. “Can you sit up there for me and take off your shirt?” He busies himself with opening the kit and taking things out, preparing to clean Harry’s wound.

With a deep breath, Harry hops up onto the counter, his fingers are hesitant, fumbling the buttons on his shirt but eventually he gets them all undone. It takes another moment to make himself open the shirt, letting it drop from his shoulders but if Louis notices, he makes no comment. Harry watches him as he turns to face Harry fully, sees him freeze for a second when he notices all the scars before he’s moving again, only paying attention to the wound he’s cleaning.

“You can ask,” Harry prods, watching him work. The movement of Louis’ hands is soothing, careful but sure. Even the sting of the alcohol on the gash in Harry’s side doesn’t deter from his admiration of Louis’ work. “If you want.”

Louis glances up at his eyes and Harry sees the way they flit down to his chest, gaze falling over each scar as they trail back down to the place he’s working on. “I don’t think I need to,” Louis replies, covering some gauze with Neosporin.

“You don’t?” Harry questions, both curious and frightened of just how much Louis might be seeing.

Louis shrugs one shoulder as he tapes the gauze to Harry’s skin. “You’re kind of skittish, you know? You cover yourself a lot, using your arms like a barrier.” His eyes meet Harry’s again and there’s understanding there. “You said you hoped someone would save you if you were being attacked. I think you meant you wish someone had.”

Harry has to look away when his eyes start to fill. He knew Louis would see his scars but he didn’t expect him to see quite so much more. He gives in to the urge to cover himself again, using his arms just like Louis said.

“How long has it been?” Louis asks, watching him with something new in his gaze. He stares at Harry’s arms with his fists clenched and Harry wonders why he does that.

“A while,” Harry answers. Five years. It’s been five years. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday.”

“Do you hate them?” Louis asks gently, clarifying when Harry gives him a questioning glance, “the scars?”

“Is there any other way to feel about them?”

Louis is quiet, seeming thoughtful as he eyes Harry’s arms. “Can I see?” He asks, reaching out but not touching, waiting for permission.

Slowly, timidly, Harry lowers his arms.

Louis steps closer, his hand still outstretched. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Harry studies him briefly before nodding slowly, bracing himself for something he hasn’t felt in years.

Louis’ fingers slide over his skin softly and Harry closes his eyes, reveling in the warm touch. He strokes over one scar and the next. “I think they’re beautiful.”

“Why?” Harry asks, eye still closed as he shivers under Louis hands. He wants to press into them, wants to press his whole body against Louis’ and live in the embrace.

“Because I think _you’re_ beautiful,” Louis answers causing Harry to open his eyes. Louis’ stare meets Harry’s and he rests both hands flat against Harry’s chest, one hand right over his heart. “You didn’t have to save me tonight. Most people probably wouldn’t have, especially if they had been through what you have. That speaks volumes about you, Harry.”

“I’m nothing special,” Harry shakes his head, hands circling Louis’ wrists as he lightly pushes him away and slides down from the counter. He grabs his shirt from the where it had pooled on the counter top and tries to move around Louis. Louis has seen too much, and it’s too scary, and Harry feels the overwhelming need to hide himself again.

“But you are,” Louis argues, stepping in his way. “You’re so special, Harry.”

“I already told you, you don’t owe me anything, Louis. You don’t have to—“

“I’m not saying it because I think I owe you something Harry,” Louis interrupts, stopping Harry in his tracks when he grasps Harry’s arms in his hands. “I’m saying it because it’s true, love.”

Harry blinks at him, unsure what to say but no longer wanting to leave. He’s caught, right there in the safety of Louis’ hands. And he does feel safe there, he realizes. It’s a feeling that doesn’t go away when Louis’ right hand leaves his arm and cups his cheek.

“I wish I had been there, Harry. I would have saved you.”

Harry breathes out harshly, his eyes filling again with more emotion than he knows what to do with. His shirt hits the floor and his hands find their way to the small of Louis’ back. He doesn’t mean to pull Louis to him but the other boy ends up pressed right up against him and neither of them seem to mind too much. He rests his forehead against Louis’ and closes his eyes again.

It’s strange, being so close to someone, so bare and open. But it feels right, too. More right than anything else has in the last five years.

“I would have saved you,” Louis whispers again, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck and holding him tightly.

Harry smiles into his hair and whispers too.

“ _Maybe you still can_.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> If you noticed a tag I have missed, please don't hesitate to let me know. The last thing I want is anyone being hurt by this. Thank you. Please let me know if you liked it too.


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